


you got me this time and I'll get you back

by scarecrowes



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Drinking, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 06:41:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarecrowes/pseuds/scarecrowes





	you got me this time and I'll get you back

He pokes the smaller boy in the chest and feels, for a second, awkwardly like his mother.  
  
“You’re too fuckin’ scrawny.” he says, anyway. “You ever hear of eatin’?”  
  
Meyer just raises his eyebrows, like he’s thirty instead of twelve. “Who’re you callin’ scrawny, dago?”  
  
“You, stupid.” Charlie just pushes him a little, grinning, before dragging him by his collar into the kitchen of the cramped apartment he shares with Joe Adonis. Said roommate being out - probably with a girl, and Charlie couldn’t care less either way.  
  
He waves Meyer in the direction of a chair and starts rummaging through cabinets and the icebox, lighting the stove once he has everything together.  
  
“Hey-- you don’t gotta..”  
  
Meyer’s got his knees pulled up to his chin when Charlie turns around, and Charlie just raises an eyebrow.  
  
“You’re stayin’ over, ain’t ya?” he asks.  
  
Meyer rolls his eyes. “....Yeah, I guess.”  
  
“Then you’re gonna hafta eat eventually, anyways.” Charlie snorts, dumping pasta into heated water and trying to remember what he had left of the food his mother had given him. “So shut up.”  
  
And Meyer makes some indignant sound but otherwise stays quiet, at least until Charlie sets a plate in front of him. Charlie’d never admit it - or even acknowledge that he noticed - but he’s found when Meyer’s upset he pouts.  
  
“I can’t eat all this!’  
 Charlie just scowls, sitting down with his own food and the bottle of cheap wine he’d been saving. “Then _don’t._ ” he growls, and makes a swipe at the plate to pull it away.  
  
But Meyer’s got his hands on it, keeping it in place.  
  
“It’s fine, Luck.” He sighs, offering the nickname up with a small smile. He knows what gets Charlie defensive, already, and he’s starting to learn how to check it before it comes to violence - rather quietly proud of how often it’s started to go his way, too.  
  
Charlie frowns, but picks up his fork again and pushes the wine bottle over to Meyer’s side of the table.  
  
“Here.”  
  
And Meyer takes it, grinning, with none of he childlike hesitation Charlie might have expected. (He’d learn fast, as well.) The boy swigs from it a little too fast and swallows, sputtering, his nose wrinkled.  
  
“This stuff is  _shit._ ” Meyer complains, coughing. Charlie just laughs around his fork.  
  
“The fuck else you think I can afford, asshole?” He leans forward to pull it from Meyer’s grip and drink, himself, ignoring the taste in favor of the heat it leaves in his stomach.  
  
Eventually they finish - kicking each other under the table and several exchanges of racial epithets notwithstanding - and well over half the bottle is gone. It’s not enough to make Charlie more than warm and a little lighter in mood than usual - but Meyer stumbles as he gets up, laughing.  
  
“S-shit.” he catches his first near-fall on the table, the second on Charlie’s arm. “Drank too much.”  
  
“You barely had any, ya lightweight.” Charlie chuckles, but stops once Meyer looks up at him - trying for baleful, but too flushed and unsteady to manage more than a frown.  
  
“I’m littler n’ you, stupid,” the younger boy grumbles, and aims a punch at Charlie’s jaw - he catches it without much effort and finds he’s holding most of Meyer’s weight.  
  
“Hey,” he grits out - winding a supportive hand around the boy’s waist without thinking about it. “You should probably lie down or somethin’, yeah?” He’s already backing into the cramped hallway, toward his room.  
  
“Mmph. Guess so.” Meyer’s mumbling against his shirt, and Charlie laughs a little and maneuvers them to the door.  
  
He dumps the boy onto his mattress a little roughly, following after with the buzz of alcohol warm under his skin. He’s half-dozing when he feels Meyer’s hand knot in his shirt again, and he glances up with one eye squinting open.  
  
“...what?”  
  
Meyer’s close enough Charlie has to pull his head back just to see him in focus, but Meyer just smiles.  
  
“Nothin.” he says - but he moves closer, over Charlie’s arm so he has no choice but to hook it around him - that or push him away, but he doesn’t want to move that much.  
  
“...Fine.” Charlie mutters. “Just quit fidgetin’ so much, Christ.”  
  
He feels Meyer laugh, breathy under his chin. “Fuckin’ sensitive, ain’tcha..?”  
  
Charlie growls and thumps him on the back, a half-hearted resemblance of his usual violence that Meyer responds to with nothing but an irritated whine - he does, however, lay still.  
  
Charlie drifts, full and warm - he absently notes that Meyer smells like  _his_  cigarettes, and it strikes him that he ought to all the time.  
  
Heat and light pressure shifts down his chest and at first he’s barely aware of it - eventually it stays enough that he cracks an eye open and finds a thin hand tracing circles over his stomach.  
  
“...What’re you doin’?”  
  
Meyer freezes - it’s momentary, and only vaguely embarrassed. “Nothin’.” he says again, but continues, slurring a little. “You’re warm.”  
  
Charlie just blinks at him, pushes his hand away gently only to have to put back again - and Meyer continues his small circular motion, brushing over Charlie’s buttons. Charlie huffs after a moment and lies back again, too determined not to move to let it bother him - and they were, after all, alone.  
  
But Meyer’s hand skims his hipbones and his eyes snap open, alert suddenly to the brown doe eyes hovering inches from his face.  
  
“Meyer, what-”  
  
“Charlie,” He’s got his chin on Charlie’s collarbones and his breath smells like wine. “I wanna...”  
  
There’s a second Charlie thinks he’ll complete the sentence and it won’t be what he thinks it will - but instead Meyer clambers closer and straddles his leg, hand squeezing against the front of Charlie’s trousers.  
  
Charlie just  _gasps_ , and Meyer leans back and grins at him, wide and flushed.  
  
“Can I put my mouth on it?”  
  
Charlie squirms against the touch, only succeeding in increasing friction - his heart is in his throat. “W- _what?”_  
  
Meyer quirks his head to one side, teeth flashing.  
  
“I wanna. You know what I mean, don’tcha? You’re not _that_ stupid, greaseball.”  
  
And he _rocks,_  bony knees digging into the mattress and groin against Charlie’s thigh.  
  
Charlie inhales, half ready to throw Meyer across the room, shaking with a tension in his chest that he could choke on, but--  
  
He reaches up instead, taking fistfuls of Meyer’s shirt and rolling them over.  
  
“That’s fuckin’ queer, yanno.”  
  
Nevermind that he’s saying it with Meyer’s thin wrists under his hands,  _how the fuck’re you so small,_  their breath mingling and Meyer squirming under his weight.  
  
“No it’s not.” Meyer huffs, “I like  _girls_. Don’t you?”  
  
Charlie snarls, bristling at an accusation that might not really be there. “A’ course I do!”  
  
“So what’s the fuckin’ problem?” Meyer’s scowling like he’s being ridiculous and it only serves to key Charlie up more - and he shoves lips and teeth and tongue against Meyer’s, thinking nothing but _shut your stupid tiny fuckin’ face_  
  
And Meyer  _laughs._  
  
“ _That’s_  fuckin’ queer, stupid.” he giggles - smothered under Charlie’s weight and Charlie growling, “shut up Meyer  _shut the fuck up goddamn-”_  
  
But he doesn’t, snickering and catching Charlie’s clawing hands enough to slide his own back down and pull at Charlie’s buttons. “C’mon,” he grins, “get off, dago. You want me to or not?”  
  
He does lean back - but he’s all tension and fire, brows a black and angry line. Meyer pushes his face close, up against Charlie’s stomach (a funny thing, intimate, but it makes Charlie’s fury break just a little) and says “Just think of a girl if you wanna” - but there’s a nervousness underneath that Charlie catches and holds.  
  
(because he wants this and feels it too)  
  
Meyer’s mouth is warm and after a few minutes of shaky restraint he can’t help but rut into it - his wariness at doing harm pushed back by Meyer moaning high in his throat, one of his hands disappearing to work underneath him. Charlie pulls his hair, makes him look up.  
  
“No,” he huffs, forgetting to be embarrassed, “Lemme do that.”  
  
“You--” Meyer’s blushing now, eyebrows raised under the dark of his hair falling out of place. “You sure?”  
  
“Just c’mere, you little prick.” he snaps - but he’s laughing under it, pulling the boy to settle in his lap, back to chest.  
  
(and he makes a bitten-off, whining sound at feeling Charlie pressed against him, hard and thick.)  
  
They end up with Meyer bumping back against him, shirt undone and pulled loose so Charlie can rake nails and cling underneath - and he finds Meyer’s pushier than ever, grabbing his wrists to put his hands in the right places, whispering to him in Yiddish he understands just enough to pick out all the swearing and  _please_. He’s hard inside Charlie’s hand - but when he turns his head and asks,  _...you wanna put it in me?_  there’s enough of a quaver in his voice that Charlie says  _no_ , pushes him onto his back and wraps his lips around him instead.  
  
And when Meyer comes, all shaking knees and sound, Charlie swallows because it strikes him as something he ought to do - same as not leaving him out on the fire escape when he shows up at three in the morning, same as pulling him out of fights he knows he can’t win. Nevermind that the feeling sends heat through his gut, and he rocks back onto his heels to finish himself in just a few rough strokes--  
  
Meyer pouts.  
  
“I wanted to--”  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
And Charlie kisses him, forceful and intent - and Meyer responds this time, sighing slightly, though once he pulls back he makes a face, grinning.  
  
“You taste like--”  
  
“Shut _up!”_  
  
He makes to punch Meyer in the gut, but they only tumble backward with the force of his movement and end up rolling,  _get off me greaseball, you’re fuckin’ heavy--_  
  
But rearranged against the wall with Meyer against his chest and cigarettes dug out from under the mattress, they’re quiet.  
  
“...Charlie?”  
  
“Mmmn?”  
  
“You wanna do that again?”  
  
He blinks.  
  
“What, _now?”_  
  
A huff, half laughter.  
  
“No, asshole. Just... sometime.”  
  
He shrugs.  
  
“...I guess.”  
  
“...Good.”  
  
And he groans when Meyer moves, _stay close, mine_ , but the boy just braces hands on Charlie’s shoulders and kisses him, this time.  
  
“You’re still really queer, you know.” Meyer laughs as he settles back down - and Charlie, reeling a little with his nose buried in Meyer’s hair, makes an effort not to shove him back out the window.


End file.
